


Waking Up Should Be A Slow Process

by collapsingStars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddles, Dreams, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, sensory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collapsingStars/pseuds/collapsingStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I really just want to write fluff that's warm and cute and snuggly.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Waking Up Should Be A Slow Process

**Author's Note:**

> I really just want to write fluff that's warm and cute and snuggly.

The first thing you register is the complete and utterly comfortable, warmth. The realization that for the first time in almost three years on this dumb rock that you weren't cold was fucking... colossal. Rocketing light speed through under developed space, accompanied only by shitty bubbles, on a freaking rock in a laboratory comprised of mostly metal, that had been turned into some sort of housing deal, was usually mildly freezing. Especially to you because for some reason or another your dumb fucking mutation made your body temperature higher than that of even Aradia's burgundy, which is why you always wore your stupid, dark gray, sweater. (You always wondered why blood color affected temperature; it made no goddamn sense to be honest. You mean you could understand maybe Eridan or Feferi, they were seadwellers, part fucking fish and were usually in the ocean, that had to be freaking cold, but even hugging Gamzee used to be like taking the ice machine and swallowing ice cubes whole down your protein chute and then sitting in the freezer as the new ice container.) 

The surrounding warmth was causing your attention to slow, your reactions slower; leaving your brain to amble up and down different thought processes. Like your mushy, gray spongematter was thinking to try and wake up, but instead you were just fucking around, staying in this dream-y state, avoiding the painful awareness of another boring, lonely day surrounded by gray. 

The color you once clung to was now about to drive your thinkpan up the wall; you hated it almost as much now as you hated the color red. Before you can complete that thought, your nature twists it into an image of you drowning, sinking lower into a dark gray abyss, red floating above you, out of you, a strange emptiness in your stomach, a pressure on your chest; it felt as if you were falling through open air but the surrounding picture and the inability to breathe said you were encased in water, unable to swim. You twist in a panic to right yourself, just causing you to sink deeper, fall faster, when suddenly it stops. You feel yourself floating just above the bottom of the ocean floor, the dark gray concrete, and in the next moment you were lying down on something soft, encased in that same brilliant warmth, and breathing hard to prove that you're alive. You're safe. You're not drowning.

Taking a deep breathe through your nose provides you with another realization. Something smells really, really fucking good. Not like something delicious was cooking (your stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh fried brown dirt vegetables covered in grub sauce) but something darker. It was fucking with your thinkpan, really waking it up so you could pay attention to the smell, trying to place it. It wasn't strong enough and you wriggled yourself closer into the smell, until your nosed was surrounded by it. Your thinkpan attempted naming the smell ridiculous things, flowery shitty descriptions and concepts like welcoming earthy, dirty and musky, like something burning and bright and old. You tell your thinkpan that absolutely none of those nookwhiffing descriptions make any sense. The warmth is making you drowsy again, and you just let yourself wander in the smell. 

This time you end up walking around in a valley, the sun bright. The panic ebbs and fades when you realize you are not burning, but it's a gentle pleasing tingle, the same warmth you felt earlier. Just as you're enjoying wandering around in the pleasant peaceful atmosphere, shade interrupts your light and you look up to see you're standing underneath a tree. And then your thinkpan places the smell. You've stumbled upon an apple orchard and it's almost overwhelming, the light sugary tang in your nostrils, almost on your taste buds, combined with the dark wood of the sturdy tree you find yourself leaning against and the thick green leaves that sway with a gentle breeze that plays with your hair. Damn. Your brain really was a flowery sucker, drawing these descriptions from your romance novels, desperate for the chance to be creatively articulate, as you thanked whatever deity for creating this dream bubble. You've never felt more relaxed, picking and rolling an apple between your hands, savoring the scent. It was easy here, pretending that there was no game, no ruler that would kill you on site. That you're not a freak, not desperate, not lonely, (the list went on.) For once you are completely comfortable, safe, and sound. 

You run your fingers through the grass on the ground to discover it wasn't the prickly earthiness you expected. It was as soft as stalk-vegetable silk, or maybe even like a meow-beasts fur. You ran you fingers through it a little more and the ground shifted. You hear a distinctive sigh above you. Very much above you, it definitely didn't come from you. And it wasn't the wind. Something squeezes around your stomach and suddenly your conscious thinkpan warns you to wake up unless this peaceful dream turns into a nightmare. You wriggle and the sudden strength around your waist is alarming, but not... altogether unwelcome. Something was rubbing circles into your back and you swear you heard “goddamn nightmares” whispered into your hair. You continue to try and shift, watching the peaceful tree melt away into the darkness that only rests behind your eyelids. You damn whoever the hell interrupted your peace to the eldritch terrors before you open your eyes. 

You wish you could say it was a graceful movement but your eyes had light pink crap shoved in the corners. You free your hand from where it had been trapped in the other person's hair (you had no doubt noticed that there was a person under you by now,) to wipe them away and raise yourself on one elbow to look around. 

You were on a couch in the living block, one that Kanaya had covered in blankets at one point. A hand persists around your waist trying to pull you back into sleep. You look down, and discover Dave. At this point honestly though, you're not surprised. You spent most of your time with him. How did you even get here though? You remember sitting down to watch a movie with everyone... Rose spiked the punch... (you look down and quickly make sure that all your clothes were where they should be) and it just made you really tired. Fuck it, you were still tired it was probably the middle of the “day” or “night” whichever race was speaking. And it wasn't like it was bad that you ended up here, not really. 

Another look around the room confirmed that no one else was here, and you let yourself drop back into Dave's arms. His face was peaceful as he smiled and he took the chance to re-wrap his arms around your waist pulling you under the pile of blankets, into the warmth that you had found earlier. You buried your nose in his neck, finding his pulse, and the same smell that had excited you. Dave took the hand on top of you both and ran it through you hair, nudging a horn it's wake. You shoved your head into his hand, and he must have been awake enough to get the hint as he rubbed around the base of your horn causing purring to spill from your throat and drowsiness to pull you back under. 

It wasn't normal troll behavior to let anyone cuddle you, unless the relationship was red or pale. You should probably be freaking out right about now. An actually aware you could anyway. But sleepy stupid you couldn't bring yourself to care whether you liked Dave red or pale, the thought washing away in the wind as you found yourself back under the apple tree, leaning against Dave. It was so easy, to let yourself relax as the dream Dave nuzzled your neck and a nameless tune broke out through the air, probably from the real Dave. It shifted and you heard it behind you, and suddenly everything felt very real, solid, coming into a sharp focus. Dave laughed and you turned to look back at him raising a questioning eyebrow.

“We're both sharing the same dream, Kitten.” He answered and continued his song. You closed your eyes and felt his breathe very real, very hot pass your lips before he connected his lips to yours. Suddenly you no longer felt as if you were warm, your fucking bloodpusher was ripping into overdrive and you were on fire. 

 

Everything could definitely wait until the morning came.

**Author's Note:**

> Dave's a light sleeper, because of the way his bro trained him. This whole time Dave is lightly aware of whatever Karkat's doing, and when Karkat has his nightmare, he started falling off of the couch. Dave manages to catch his fall with his time powers, stopping time to move him back, before starting up again, explaining the weirdness at the end of his dream. 
> 
> Of course Dave smells like apples (also coppery lava). 
> 
> "It was as soft as stalk-vegetable silk" translates to "It was as soft as corn-silk" (that stuff is really fucking soft) and "fresh fried brown dirt vegetables" are french fries. (My shitty attempt to low-blood language.. sorry)
> 
> The first time Karat dreams about the apple orchard, it's his own, though it may be that it's Dave's dream bubble. The second time is a reconstructed dream-bubble memory of his dream that Dave can join him in (because I say so.) Or however you want to make sense of this self-indulgent, gooey, fluffy mess.


End file.
